


Tangled Strings

by Random_Scribbling



Category: God of War
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 12:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Scribbling/pseuds/Random_Scribbling
Summary: From the moment she meets Kratos, he is not what she expects. And, for someone who foresaw her own death, that is something of a surprise. A character study of Faye and her relationship with Kratos, and how, even without knowing it, he changes Fate.





	Tangled Strings

~O~

She is used to knowing what will happen. She knew how Odin would ruin the world, how her people would be forced to flee, and how her own son would come for them. How the boy would free the Giants, how he would cause Ragnarok. Even now she can look forward and see her own death. And she knows who will come to her. Who the boy’s father will be. A stranger, tall and pale, with crimson marks and a past drenched in blood. A strong man with broad shoulders and cold eyes.

She expects him to resemble a storm; overwhelming, painful, but gone in a single night.

She expects for the father to barge into her life like thunder, to burst into her home like the Aesir warriors she has seen.

Instead she nearly trips over him.

As she straightens from her stumble, she can’t help but cock an eyebrow. He’s out cold in the river, half-in and half-out of the water, and he’s barely dressed. She considers him carefully. Then she pokes him with her axe.

“Hey, you awake?” She demands. He doesn’t move. She prods him again, using the flat of the blade, and then deliberately puts a shallow cut on his exposed arm. Still no movement. With a huff, Faye slings her axe across her back and steps closer. Apparently she’ll have to fulfill the prophecy herself. Wrapping her hands around his sapling-sized wrists, Faye manages to drag the man out of the water and onto the leafy ground. And that’s when she notices the chains. They look seared to his skin, scarred flesh stuck to metal, thick links trailing off into the water. She gives the unconscious man a look.

“You’re really not making this easy for me, are you?” She asks rhetorically. He does not respond. With a resigned sigh, Faye bends down and starts tugging at the chain, winding it around the man’s arm. There’s a blade at the end. It’s as long as his forearm, meaning it’s nearly as big as Faye’s torso, with strange letters etched into it. Not runes, but words from a language she has never seen. It is still stained with blood, and something that shines gold. There’s a second blade, similarly chained to the other arm, stained with the same gleaming gold. She links the chains and blades across the man’s chest before pulling a cord from her side and crossing it underneath his arms. Looping the leftover cord around her own shoulders, Faye cracks her neck and starts forward. She grunts at the effort it takes to drag him a single foot, remembering how far from her cabin they are. This is gonna take a while.

He doesn’t wake until nightfall, eyes blinking open as she sits by the fire, a pot of salve by her side. She almost doesn’t notice. He’s quiet, staring at the ceiling, not trying to move from her bed or get out from underneath the blankets of furs she’d draped over him.

“Awake, I see,” she remarks, making him turn his head to her. He has brown eyes.

“Where am I?” And sounds like a rockslide.

“My home,” Faye responds, carefully dabbing some more ointment onto her shoulders. “I found you passed out in the river. I thought you may appreciate a bed slightly more comfortable than the ground.”

“Hm.”

He sits up, slowly, and swings bare feet to the floor, keeping the furs across his lap. Faye watches out of the corner of her eye. He looks even larger within the confines of her home, face scruffy with half-grown beard while his head is bald. The man makes to stand, but freezes, fists clenching in the blankets.

“Where are my clothes?” He rumbles, and Faye bites back a grin.

“Those rags you were wearing? I used them for fuel,” she answers. She grabs a bundle of fabric, bought ages ago for just this purpose, and tosses it to him.

“You’ll need something sturdier if you want to survive around here.” He catches the clothes, not looking away from the stranger. She turns back to her work, continuing to dress her wounds, and he separates shirt from pants and underthings before standing to dress. Faye watches out of the corner of her eye. Scars, just like every other warrior, impressive musculature, and the crimson mark that winds all the way down his body…She hadn’t thought she’d enjoy this part of the prophecy, but at least he’s easy on the eyes.

“What’s your name, stranger?” She asks as he finishes dressing.

“Kratos,” is the grunted response. “How were you wounded?” A mirthless smirk crosses Faye’s face.

“Hauling your arse back here,” she reaches over and holds up the cord. “Looped this under your arms, around my shoulders, and dragged you. You’re heavy, you know that?” An odd look crosses his face and he steps closer. Instantly Faye’s hand falls to her axe and her eyes narrow, a silent threat. Kratos holds his hands up in surrender.

“Peace,” he says. “I have some healing herbs in my pouch, unless you burnt that as well.” Faye slowly releases her weapon and points to where she left Kratos’ things. The warrior crosses the room, crouching to paw through his pack before returning with a large leaf. Faye recognizes it.

“My thanks,” she nods, taking the leaf and crumbling it into the ointment, slathering the new mixture over her other arm. Kratos grunts an acknowledgement.

“What do I owe you for the clothes?” He asks, and Faye considers.

“I’d give them for free, but if you insist on repaying me I could do with some more meat,” she answers, beginning to wrap bandages lightly over her wounds. He’s stomping out the door before she has the chance to say anything else, and Faye has to take a moment to stare after him. She had expected a rough, loud warrior. What she has is a quiet God with ichor on his blades. She sighs deeply as she pulls on her shirt. Excellent.

Kratos continues to defy expectations. They don’t have sex the first day, or even the first week. He spends most of his time walking the woods, always returning with some meat or fish for the table, sometimes wandering as far as the market leagues away. If it weren’t for the prophecy Faye would wonder if Kratos would just wander away and never come back, but he stays. They make a second bed, shoved against another wall in her cabin, though Kratos prefers to sleep outside. Sometimes he follows Faye to gather herbs and potion ingredients, sharpening his blades and keeping an eye out for wolves. Both of them are dressed warmly by the time fall deepens to winter.

As the first of the snowfall threatens, Faye loads up her small cart and sets off through the forest.

“Where are you going?” Kratos asks, falling into step with her. His scruff has lengthened into a full beard, bushy and brown, and with a hood over his head he could almost pass for a normal warrior.

“The last market,” Faye grunts as she drags the cart over a root. “I sell food, furs, medicines. I get different food, different furs, different medicines. Sometimes I even get weapons.”

“Hm.” The hum is considering, and Faye isn’t surprised when Kratos doesn’t leave her side. The market is bustling this season, men and women wandering between carts and exchanging goods, gold, and silver. As always, the sight fills Faye with a strange sense of regret. She remembers markets like this, years ago, before her people fled the world. Mortals and Giants and Elves and Vanir, all gathered to trade goods and knowledge. And then Odin came, and now only Mortals attend the markets on Midgard.

Well, she amends, spotting a dot of blue through the crowd. Mortals and Dwarves.

“Watch the cart,” she orders, ducking away before Kratos can object. Faye weaves through the crowd with ease until she arrives at a forge. The blue dwarf manning it grunts a greeting without turning around, and she smirks.

“Is that how you greet your favorite customer?” She calls, and the dwarf jumps in surprise, nearly dropping the blade he’s forging and cursing up a storm.

“Faye!” He shouts, turning around. “Nice to see ya! Where’s the axe?”

“Nice to see you too, Brok,” she smiles, already removing the weapon from her back and dropping it heavily into the dwarf’s grasping hands. “How’s your brother?”

That comment sets off a worried rant disguised by insults regarding his brother’s skills, brains, and hardiness out in the world without Brok there to make sure that Sindri isn’t going to starve himself working on some hammer. By the time Faye wanders back over to her cart her axe is in much better shape and she’s reassured the blue dwarf that if she sees his brother she’ll make sure he’s eating properly. As she draws closer she sees that her cart looks emptier than when she left.

“What did you do?” She demands, racing over to find Kratos still standing over her half-empty cart.

“I sold some of your items,” he says.

“What gave you the right to do that?!” Faye is a hair away from reaching for her axe, prophecy or not, when Kratos holds out a handful of gold. She blinks. It’s more gold than she usually gets for the whole cart, with less than half her wares sold.

“Odin’s beard,” she breathes, impressed. “What’d you do to get this much?” Kratos shrugs.

“I merely allowed them to name a reasonable price,” he says, and before Faye can push it further a customer approaches.

“I’ve heard you’re selling burn salve?” They ask.

“We are,” Kratos rumbles.

“I need a small jar, perhaps ten gold?”

Kratos stares.

“You’re right, I’m sure it’s difficult to make. How about twenty?”

Stare.

“Twenty-five?”

Harder stare.

“Fine, but thirty is my final offer!”

“That is a fair price,” Kratos agrees, and the exchange is made. Faye watches the customer go with wide eyes.

“I normally sell it for fifteen,” she mumbles.

“I can stop if you like,” Kratos offers and Faye waves it off.

“No, continue. I’ll go sell the furs.” They make their way back to the cabin that night with a full cart and a bag of gold. Faye can’t help but smile, even though it earns her an odd look from Kratos. Who’d have thought that her thunderstorm would be a decent merchant.

Faye realizes that she’s made a mistake the second the ice cracks. She’s out on the lake, some distance from the cabin, looking for fish beneath the winter ice to supplement their stores. But the warm snap, nearly a week of days warm enough to go without thick gloves, have softened the ice, and Faye freezes solid as the ice cracks and creaks beneath her. Slowly, she turns her head towards the shore, yards away. Kratos is still on shore. She expects for him not to notice her, but something urges the warrior to direct his gaze towards the woman he is growing fond of. He looks up just in time to spot her wide eyes and see Faye vanish beneath the water.

“Faye!”

Faye doesn’t expect to wake up. Yet she does, frozen to the core and with numb limbs, but she’s awake. Her mind is moving slow as syrup in winter, and she struggles to comprehend her surroundings. The cabin, bright with firelight despite the sense that some time has passed. But if this is the cabin, and that’s her bed in the corner… Something shifts behind her and Faye would stiffen if she weren’t shivering hard enough to make her teeth chatter.

“Are you awake?” She can feel Kratos’ voice rumble through her chest, and she can’t even turn her head to face him. She nods. A shift of the furs, and Faye is suddenly aware of the warm cloth against her skin. All her skin.

“M-m-my clothes?” She manages, stuttering on the words.

“Soaked through, but drying,” Kratos answers. “This was the fastest way to warm you.”

A hand, almost large enough to wrap around her waist, tugs her back against a warm, broad body, and she can feel iron-hard muscles press against her. She tries to hold her breath. This must be it; the moment of prophecy. She waits, but nothing happens, and Kratos doesn’t speak again. He merely slowly strokes his hands up and down her arms, attempting to soothe away the shuddering in her muscles. Feeling seeps back in, needle pricks of pain first in her fingers and toes and then traveling up her arms. She trades awareness for warmth, and as her body stops shuddering she reluctantly falls back asleep, dimly aware of Kratos’ hands still stroking her arms. Up and down, up and down, up and… When she wakes again she is alone, in her own bed, and the sun is shining outside. Dressing and going out, she finds Kratos methodically skinning a deer. She watches for a moment.

“Thank you,” she says finally, and he grunts. Kratos glances up at her, and then away.

“You are good company,” he declares. “And a fierce warrior. I would not lose you any sooner than necessary.”

The statement of affection? Admiration? Throws her for a loop, and Faye smirks in spite of herself. She can’t quite find the words to describe her feelings for this odd man. This warrior who does not fight without necessity, this man who does not take what is not offered, this uneducated man who is a cunning merchant, this God of War who has saved her life. This is not how she envisioned her prophecy unfolding, not in the least, but looking at Kratos, she is almost sure that she prefers this version. When Faye approaches him later, crawling into his bed at night, he halts her wandering hands and stares seriously into her eyes.

“Before we do this,” he says, “There is much you must know.”

And so she stills herself and listens. She hears his tale, of becoming a warrior, of meeting his first wife, of their child, of a deal made in desperation that turned him against his own people, and of his quest, first for vengeance, then for peace, and then for vengeance again. Of his escape and long weeks wandering barren wastelands, peopled only by bandits and savages. And then of falling, too tired to walk, into a river, and waking up to his very own goddess of beauty and wisdom staring at him with open wounds and a cocked eyebrow. He pauses, waiting for her response, and it is only long weeks together that lets Faye see the fear of rejection lurking deep in those brown eyes. She smiles, gentle as moonbeams.

“Oh, Kratos,” she murmurs. “Thank you for telling me, but your past is just that: the past. It helped to shape you, yes, but it does not define who you are today. Now,” she leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead, and then to his cheeks where salt water leaves invisible trails, “Make love to me.”

And Kratos kisses her then, gently, as if to give her time to move away. She kisses him back, trying to project reassurance and comfort to this strange, powerful, sad warrior, this broken God who is able to make himself vulnerable despite his many battles.

And the night prophesied comes to pass.

It takes weeks, months, for her to recognize the signs. Longer for her belly to start to swell. Kratos stays out longer and longer during the day, gathering supplies and herbs and anything her heart desires while Faye stays closer and closer to the safety and comfort of the cabin. But at night, when the sun sets and they are alone, Kratos continues to defy her expectations, helping her to prepare for the birth and what will come after. Faye realizes, as the days pass, that something has changed. Her visions waver, change with each night, and destiny itself seems to be stumbling on the path. Things are moving both faster and slower than they are supposed to, but with every gentle action, with every low rumble of affection, Kratos lights something within her.

Something warm.

Something bright.

Something like hope.

When the day comes, Kratos himself pulls her child from her belly, holds the infant in one broad palm.

“A boy,” he declares, wrapping the child in cloth and handing him to Faye. She grins weakly, pale and sweating and exhausted, but the tiny, scrunched-up treasure in her arms is worth all of it.

“What should we name him?” She hears herself asking, despite the name Loki etched into distant cave walls and hovering on the tip of her tongue. Kratos hums thoughtfully, staring at the infant as he ponders the question.

“When I was in Sparta,” he says slowly, “There was a warrior. He would smile, no matter the circumstances we found ourselves in, and he gave everyone around him hope. He died saving me and a number of other Spartans.”

“What was his name?” Faye asks, and smiles at the answer. She looks down at the child.

“My parents would want me to call him Loki,” she admits, and it feels like so long ago that she first wrote that name on the walls of her home. The Faye that etched that prophecy, who saw those visions, looked at her future and was resigned. But here, now, all she feels is joy. She has her child in her arms, a strong warrior devoted to her, and, though she knows death will come for her, she knows that it will not be meaningless.

“Atreus,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to her son’s head and feeling, in her soul, the decision ripple off through the threads of prophecy, tangling the carefully constructed web of destiny. From this point forward, everything changes. “My precious son.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching Jacksepticeye's playthrough of God of War 4, and I couldn't help but be amazed by the one character we never got to meet. Thus, this was born. I hope you enjoyed, and have a great day!


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